by Tamara Allen
“You don’t know?”
Charlie slumped farther on the cushion, exhaling a disgruntled breath. “I’ll admit I don’t know much about the man at all. But neither does any other reporter in New York. That’s part of why everyone’s so keen to catch hold of him for five minutes. He goes to balls and luncheons, but hardly seems to talk about himself, from what I’ve heard. I cornered one of his compatriots last week—Lord something-or-other—hoping to get some information second-hand, but he claimed he’d never met Belcourt.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t.”
“Oh, come now. These swallow-tails all flock together, go to each other’s clubs and summer houses. How can you spend that much time around another fellow and not know a thing about him?”
Though Will’s brows knit, the trace of a smile on his lips suggested he wasn’t taking the question seriously. “Perhaps he’s not who he claims to be? You have to agree that with the fervor surrounding Miss Vanderbilt’s wedding, it’s surely tempting for some rather less than noble Europeans to try for a wealthy bride, themselves.”
“A hell of a story that would make. Tom Brown, poor cobbler, puts by the cost of a dress suit and a steamer ticket, disguises himself as a dashing lord of the realm, and wins the daughter of one of the richest men in New York. Hell, I could go around, so disguised. Or you, with that conceited air, you’d fit right in—”
“It’s not conceit. It’s annoyance. And you are far more suited for a ruse, Mr. Kohlbeck.”
Charlie ignored the emphatic note. “All right. So I’m stuffed into evening clothes and going about New York, being presented to Vanderbilts and Astors as Lord Bunnyfeather, handsome bachelor in search of a wife with a bountiful dowry—”
“Handsome?”
Charlie even more determinedly ignored the raised eyebrow. “A fellow with that plot in mind would avoid the press like the plague.”
“I’d certainly avoid you like the plague. Under that circumstance, of course.”
Will’s somber expression seemed rather a ruse at the moment. Charlie eyed him dubiously. “Do you think it’d do you any good?”
“In your case or—”
“In any case. No one else might question you, in the midst of all this lordliness overrunning Manhattan, but you can be sure the press will find you out.” Charlie straightened, folding his arms. “Whichever fair maiden Belcourt’s after, I’ll discover it and the Herald will make a front page out of it.”
Will only seemed amused. “Poor Lord Bunnyfeather. It seems a man can’t fall in love without the whole world peering over his shoulder.”
“He can well enough if he’s a poor cobbler. Or a poor newspaper man.” Charlie did not contain his own amusement at Will’s narrowed glance.
“My upcoming engagement to Miss Chapin is no business of the Herald’s, Mr. Kohlbeck. Nor yours.”
“I’m not about to write it up,” Charlie said with a laugh. “Though a nosier reporter might wonder why you haven’t already lowered your flag and surrendered.”
“It’s not a matter of surrender. Some of us are not inclined to rush into things without adequate preparation.”
“Can there be adequate preparation when it comes to marriage?”
“Of course.”
Charlie shook his head. “Sounds dull.”
“No doubt the reason you are still unmarried.”
“I’m not in love.” Charlie glanced at him. “Are you?”
Will did not meet his gaze. “As I said, my engagement is no one’s business but mine and Miss Chapin’s.”
“The whole world isn’t peering over your shoulder, you know.”
Will’s attention stayed on the road ahead. “Shouldn’t you be taking down your questions for Lord Belcourt?”
Adequate preparation in all things, apparently. ‘I’ve got them down already.” Charlie tapped his temple. “It’s a growing list, getting longer with every reporter Belcourt turns away.”
“You’ll forget something.”
“If it’s important, I’ll remember it.”
“And if you aren’t granted an audience?”
Charlie grinned. “Lord Bunnyfeather may be called upon to save the day.”
Chapter Four
The Hoffman House was every bit as showy and ornamental as Will expected, dominating its enviable spot at the juncture of Broadway and Fifth Avenue, and swarming with so much activity, even Queen Victoria might go unnoticed in the tumult. Under a soaring ceiling, the lobby seemed impossibly immense, a palatial expanse done up in silver, gold, and copper—as if no other colors would suit but those which reminded one of precious metals.
It was a restrained elegance, Will had to admit, tasteful despite the size of the place—and certainly far less gaudy than some of its patrons. The ladies who sailed past were so encrusted with baubles and swaddled in plush furs, he could notice little else about them before they disappeared in the crowd. Their gentlemen didn’t indulge in the same sartorial display, but made up for it by striding about the lobby and snapping at the servants struggling along with their trunks.
It didn’t seem the sort of tranquil, cultured atmosphere someone like Belcourt was surely accustomed to and Will wondered if the man would turn tail back to the Clarendon before the day was out. Charlie clearly wasn’t wondering the same; he’d gone to the desk to inquire after Belcourt, and even now stood chatting up the clerk as if they were old friends. It would have been reassuring but for the clerk’s increasingly somber expression. Worried, Will moved to join them—only to find the clerk all at once all smiles at his approach.
“Mr. Nesmith?”
“That’s right—”
“Good gracious,” the clerk said, beaming. “It’s an honor to have you here. As I was saying to Mr. Kohlbeck, I believe Lord Belcourt may yet be in the reception parlor…” He gestured toward a wide corridor that led, seemingly, to the farthest horizon. “I shall just run and inquire.”
“Well, we can certainly walk down. You needn’t go to all that trouble—”
“It’s no trouble, sir, I assure you!”
“Conscientious fellow,” Charlie remarked when the clerk had gone.
“Ingratiating, certainly. You’d think we were lords, ourselves.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “There’s the possibility he might think that.”
Uneasiness stirred. “He might? Why would he?”
“Not that we’re lords, precisely,” Charlie went on with unwarranted cheer. “But he may be under the impression we’re persons to be reckoned with.”
Will’s uneasiness made a more concerted petition for acknowledgment. “You gave him to understand that we’re to be reckoned with? In what capacity?”
Charlie let out an exasperated breath. “If I’d said we’re reporters, he would’ve tossed us into the street. Do you want to finish this assignment?”
“I want to know what lies you’ve told to get us an audience—” It struck him then, with the recollection of the clerk’s enthusiasm upon their introduction. “Tell me you didn’t. For God’s sake, Charlie, I’m no relation of Jonathan Nesmith’s. I’ve never even been to California.”
Charlie shrugged. “It’s sunny and warm and everyone’s got pockets full of gold.”
Will wondered if it would be in thoroughly bad taste to clout Charlie on the nose in the lobby of the Hoffman House. “You don’t realize what you’ve done. We’ll both be fired if you keep making up stories out of whole cloth.”
“Well, you know what they say. Lies stitched from scraps come apart at the seams.”
“That’s not in the least amusing.”
Charlie clapped him on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine. You pretend you’ve got ten million and I’ll pretend I work for a man who’s got ten million. You’re the boss for the time being.”
“If I were—”
“You’d fire me on the spot.” Charlie smiled. “Come on. Let’s meet Lord Belcourt halfway.”
Will no longer wanted to meet Lord Belcourt at all
, but Charlie pulled, pushed, and prodded him down the promenade to the parlor rooms, where they were spared the job of hunting down the correct one by Lord Belcourt, himself, coming at a quick march from the opposite direction, the clerk hurrying along just behind.
Will fought a desire to disappear into the crowd. It would serve Charlie right to have to sort out the mess; but if Charlie did pull off the interview on his own, he’d no doubt give a thorough accounting of Will’s refusal to cooperate. Will didn’t want to believe Mr. Holloway would approve of Charlie’s methods, but the Herald did have a reputation for creative journalism. An interview with Belcourt while everyone’s interest in him was at such a fevered pitch… That would sell papers to justify almost any underhanded tactic Charlie Kohlbeck could invent.
Ten minutes. Will could play along for ten minutes—and pray the California Nesmiths never got wind of it.
If Lord Belcourt had any inkling he was about to be tricked by the American press, there was no sign in the warm blue gaze or welcoming smile. Will had seen a photograph of him in more than one newspaper, but none had done him justice. Tall and slender, he was clean-shaven, and had no need of a beard to improve upon such attractive, strong-jawed features. His dark hair was slicked back, but for a roguish curl set loose upon his brow. It no doubt charmed the ladies, especially when paired with that easy smile.
Belcourt extended a hand to Will as if they were old friends meeting up after a long absence. “Mr. Nesmith, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. I understand you’re in town from California. Quite the journey.” The smile deepened. “I’ve made a rather long one, myself. Come in for a cup of tea, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course, my lord.” Will found himself stammering and forced an air of nonchalance with ruthless—and he hoped invisible—effort. Belatedly he realized he’d made no introduction of Charlie nor knew what introduction to make. “Forgive me, Lord Belcourt. This gentleman is—”
“Mr. Nesmith’s private secretary,” Charlie said cheerfully and bowed with near sincerity. “Charles Kohlbeck. I’m honored, Lord Belcourt. More than I can begin to express.”
Belcourt seemed to find nothing amiss in the awkward introduction. “Gentlemen, I am honored.” With a sweeping gesture, he ushered them into a chamber that rendered the word “parlor” woefully inadequate. Drawing room might suit, Will mused, though he doubted Mrs. Astor’s was any grander. He preferred something cozier, himself, but Violet would’ve liked it.
Lord Belcourt appeared entirely at home as he seated himself in the plump center of a white silk-covered settee and bid a member of the staff bring in the tea tray. “How do you find New York, Mr. Nesmith? It’s quite the bewildering place, isn’t it?”
“I’ll admit to finding it a little overwhelming,” Will said. “There are certainly times I’d like to run back home and stay there.”
Charlie’s gaze on him narrowed. “Haven’t given Manhattan much of a chance, have you?”
“I’m willing to give it every chance,” Will retorted. “And hope it extends me the same courtesy.”
“I should like the chance to catch my breath,” Lord Belcourt said with a laugh. “So many invitations!”
“Magnificent wedding, wasn’t it?” Charlie prompted.
Lord Belcourt’s brows drew together. “Wedding? Oh, yes, the wedding! Grand, grand.” He sipped at his tea, then made a face as if it were too hot. “Lovely girl. Such a lucky fellow.”
“I wonder if we shall have another such, this season.”
Charlie’s tone was teasing, and to Will’s relief, Lord Belcourt seemed to take no offense. “If you’re referring to Miss Mayhew,” Belcourt said in the same genial tone, “she was very kind to dance with me on two successive evenings. I hope that’s not quite enough to constitute an engagement in New York?”
Charlie’s gaze was bright over his teacup. “You must inquire of the young lady’s mother for the most up to date etiquette in that regard.”
Will shot him a warning glance. Much more and the interview would be over before it had hardly begun. But Lord Belcourt again only smiled and took a sandwich. “You’ve met Miss Mayhew’s mother, have you?”
Charlie broke into a laugh. “No, but I’ve met a number of young ladies’ mothers and they can be counted on to present a united front where courtship’s concerned. If you run into Miss Mayhew again—say, at Mrs. Wortham’s reception tonight—have a care.”
“Mrs. Wortham…” A corner of Belcourt’s mouth curled, though his eyes were still lit with good humor. “Yes, she is a charming woman. Charming and most persistent. I suppose one must be when one has four daughters of marriageable age and only so many parties in a season.” He turned to Will. “I do hope I’ll see you there tonight. Especially if you are as yet unspoken for,” he added with a little laugh.
Will plastered on a polite smile. “Well, my lord, I would like to attend, but—”
“We’ve only just arrived in town,” Charlie cut in smoothly. “And we did it on the sly so that Mr. Nesmith could catch his breath before accepting invitations.” Charlie flashed Will a reproving glance. “You won’t want to overdo, sir, even if Mrs. Wortham does think to offer you a last minute invitation—”
“Let me offer you a last minute invitation,” Lord Belcourt exclaimed. “Mrs. Wortham has given me leave to invite three guests, and I think she cherishes the hope they will all be vulnerable young bachelors.” He chuckled. “Do say you will, Mr. Nesmith. It will give us the opportunity to talk and I would so enjoy it. As it is…” He shook his head. “I’ve an appointment in five minutes, so I will have to beg your forgiveness and make haste.”
Will rose as he did. “You are very kind, my lord, but—”
“You’re free this evening,” Charlie said, rising. “If you’re still feeling unsteady…” He leaned toward Lord Belcourt. “He’s been a little fatigued. Rough trip east, you see. But I’ve been acting as chaperone to make sure he doesn’t wear himself down—”
“Ah, then you must come along, Mr. Kohlbeck, and I shall have essentially fulfilled my duty to Mrs. Wortham.” Belcourt took the hand Will was dazedly holding forth and gave it a shake. “Eight o’clock, gentlemen. And do be prepared to dance.”
He was chuckling as he left the parlor. It wasn’t until he’d gone from sight that Will fully wakened to the horror being visited upon him. “Charlie…” Words wouldn’t come; not acceptable words for a refined atmosphere, at any rate. The words that did want expression were forced to keep to a narrow track inside his anxious mind during the perilous passage back to the lobby. Too many people had seen him at tea with Belcourt and they all wanted to stop and gossip, no doubt to find out who he was. Charlie came to the fore, then, putting them off with some nonsense about Mr. Nesmith needing a lie-down.
Any gratitude Will might’ve felt for that was lost in increasing annoyance, and once on the street, he found his voice. “I cannot begin to imagine what you were thinking—”
“You know, I hear that phrase frequently—”
“I’ve no doubt—”
“But the thing of it is, I believe you can imagine it.” Charlie stepped off the curb to make an apparent charge through the speeding cabs for the streetcar farther out. “What’s more, I think you know we couldn’t have had more perfect luck. We’ll have the chance to talk to him again, and better, observe him in his native habitat. I can write up a story no other reporter will get.”
Will kept up, climbing aboard after him. “You haven’t a single care for the position you’ve put me in. I’m not any relation of Jonathan Nesmith’s and we can’t possibly know if there may be someone at this party who will call me out as a fraud. We’ll be asked to leave, publicly humiliated, and that will be the Herald’s headline tomorrow morning. And how I can explain this to anyone back home—” Or Violet. Will groaned, lowering his head in his hands. “This is a disaster.”
“For God’s sake.” Charlie gave up the seat across the aisle and moved to sit beside Will. “You’ll worry yours
elf to death, Smitty. If there’s a soul at this party who’s met Nesmith, they won’t know whether you’re related to him. Maybe you are and you don’t even know it. I saw a likeness of the man in a paper once and he was as fair as you. We can call you a distant cousin and no one the wiser. Just give me an hour tonight and I’ll work up all the story we need. You go along, smile, talk about the weather, and sneer at folks to your heart’s content.”
Will sat up straight and folded his arms. “You know, I must be losing my hearing. I quite expected an apology somewhere, but if it was there, I missed it.”
Charlie snorted. “You take that daily pint of vinegar just on principle, I think.”
Having achieved a modicum of calm, Will just shook his head. “Never mind. It occurs to me I needn’t rely on any misplaced scrap of common sense from your addled brain. Mr. Holloway will put a swift end to this ridiculous plot.”
“You think so?”
Charlie was clearly confident the ridiculous plot would gain Holloway’s blessing. Concerned he might be proven right, Will spent the rest of the ride thinking out arguments to counter any effort of Charlie’s to persuade Holloway to—as Charlie liked to say—just go along. Once back in the editor’s office, with Charlie beside him and Holloway surveying them both like a pair of truants, Will made the error of allowing Charlie to explain matters. Every sentence out of Charlie’s mouth only put a keener light in Holloway’s eye. Lord Belcourt’s interest in talking to them, which Will could not deny, seemed the deciding factor. There was a story to be had, and Holloway would have it.
But Will couldn’t go along. He appeared to be the only one immune to whatever madness drove reporters. It was upon him to inject some practicality. “Sir, I think there’s surely an easier way to obtain an interview with Lord Belcourt. Invite him to a private supper, perhaps…”
“You interviewed folks in New Brighton, didn’t you, Mr. Nesmith?”
“Well, yes. Now and then.”
“So you know what you’re doing.” Holloway leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach, twisting a finger in his gold watch chain. “If it will reassure you, I have it on good authority that Jonathan Nesmith is a recluse who seldom ventures beyond San Francisco. He has a number of relatives in California. While I don’t like Mr. Kohlbeck’s initial decision to pass you off as one of them, we have an opportunity for a strong piece—maybe more than one—about Belcourt’s visit to New York, not to mention the broader story.”